


A Hard Way to Fall

by por_queeee



Series: A Hard Way to Fall [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, First Time, Hand Jobs, Identity Issues, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Repression, Slash, TW: Homophobia, TW: Violence, Unresolved Sexual Tension, m-sur-m era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-07 15:12:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1903701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/por_queeee/pseuds/por_queeee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Montreuil-sur-Mer, and Javert is reminded of the heart he does not have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Montreuil-sur-Mer, Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic follows a strange hybrid of canon between the brick, the film, and my own head. For the most part I'm following the timeline of the book. Physically I happen to be thinking of Hugh Jackman and Russel Crowe while writing the characters, but it shouldn't matter too much.

_Montreuil-sur-Mer, 1821_

Javert’s steps are sullen as he climbs the stairs to Monsieur Madeleine’s office. These weekly reports, once only monthly, have become something of a trial for him.

Every week it is the same. Javert comes after his evening rounds, for the mayor stays at his own work quite late. He can not accommodate, as he terms it, a “proper visit” during the day. The mayor will sit behind his large oak desk, with Javert standing opposite. The mayor will ask if he’d like to sit, and Javert will decline. The mayor will ask if he requires a drink, and Javert will decline. The first ten minutes, in fact, are a horrible mire of politely declined hospitality. Finally, after the niceties are done with, he will be allowed to get on with their business, Madeleine listening politely.

This would be simple enough, if perhaps a bit annoyingly repetitive, but these reports seem to have twisted shamefully in Javert. Madeleine is a man he respects, that is true. But respect does not account for how he has begun to hang on the man’s every word, to note every movement and breath taken in his presence. Thankfully this infatuation hasn’t been enough for him to cease putting up objections when the mayor’s kindness misleads his judgment of criminals, for his sense of duty would kill him. But the way the man’s small warm smiles pierce him, the way he notes the large strong hands, the way he flushes in pleasure at a word of subtle praise. Surely these things are not right.

And so every encounter is a trial, because it reminds Javert of that piece of himself he’d so like buried. He is caught between desire and shame. Each night, afterwards, is a night of misery as he analyses every detail of the exchange for signs of his own deviance. Was his smile at the mayor’s own amusement a presumption? Was the way his gaze lingered as Madeleine sipped tea a damnable liberty?

He pauses now at the door before knocking hesitantly. His chest is, as always, tight with anticipation and nerves. Javert unnerved- his men at the station would not believe such a thing.

The return of a muffled “come in!” and he enters, shutting the door behind him with a click. His hat is clutched stiffly to his chest as he bows in greeting.

Madeleine laughs, standing from his seat. Javert struggles not to note how pleasantly the man’s eyes crinkle. “Javert, I am afraid I forgot that it is Friday. I should have been expecting you. Please, sit.”

“No, Monsieur, but I thank you. If it is a bad time—“

Madeleine holds up a hand, halting him before sinking back into his chair. “Not at all. Javert, it is I that makes you give your reports in person each week. I impose upon you enough without the further inconvenience of sending you away before that report is delivered.”

Javert averts his eyes, clearing his throat. “It is no inconvenience, Monsieur le Maire” he insists quietly. The mayor is his superior in both society and authority. It is not his place to refuse the man, nor— nor would he wish to.

Madeleine shrugs. “All the same. Now is fine.” He folds his hands before him on the desk. “Do you care for a glass of water? I’m ill prepared to offer anything better, but surely chasing criminals has left you parched.”

He shakes his head, ignoring the jest. “No, but I thank you for your kindness.” The mayor is ill prepared indeed, for he wears no suit coat and his cravat is loosened. Even his greying brown hair is uncharacteristically ruffled, as if unconsciously done in the midst of deep thought. It is a terrible cruelty how well he looks when disheveled. The ink spots on his hands are strangely endearing. Javert forces himself to meet the mayor’s steady gaze. “May I commence with my report?”

The look Madeleine returns is one of amusement. He spreads his hands obligingly. “Please, inspector.”

It takes only twenty minutes to slog through the minor crimes of the week— some boys throwing rocks, a few pickpockets, a drunken fight at an inn, the theft of an unattended valise— but it is a long twenty minutes all the same. Madeleine leans back in his chair halfway through, kicking his feet up. It is out of line with the man’s usual dignified manner, and incredibly distracting. Javert delivers his report instead to a point on the wall above Monsieur le Maire’s head, acutely aware of the man’s warm gaze wandering over him in boredom. He always seems to be examining Javert, though what once he read as cold calculation has morphed into a comfortable familiarity. It is hell. Javert mentally ticks through his preparations for the meeting as he drones on about a missing horse. How embarrassing it would be to have forgotten to shine his boots or press his trousers. It was bad enough how often he came in with singed coat-tails- Madeleine never failed to comment good naturedly on his carelessness, always offering to have the coat repaired himself.

As he finishes his speech, he forces himself to look levelly at the mayor. “As you can see, Monsieur, there is nothing of especial interest to you. It is but another uneventful week.”

Madeleine lowers his feet from the desk with a smile. “Boring work for our inspector, but quite good for Montreuil-sur-Mer all the same.”

“I assure you Monsieur, I am pleased only to see order maintained sufficiently.”

Madeleine appraises him thoughtfully, and Javert’s hands twitch uselessly where he holds them behind his back. “Surely you must grow bored, Javert. I know you well enough to see when you are not being used to your full capacity.” Javert presses his tongue to the backs of his teeth until it goes numb. He can quite vividly imagine the mayor of M-sur-M using him to his full capacity. His fingers clench, unclench. The creak of his leather gloves is quite audible.

The older man leans forward with a spreading smile. “Perhaps it is not as thrilling an occupation for your mind as the law, but I would like you to come to my home tomorrow to dine. I know it’s rather short notice, but it might at least occupy a few of your hours.”

Javert’s brow knits in confusion. “A dinner? Monsieur, I cannot impose—“

Madeleine dismisses his concern with a wave of his hand. “I won’t hear a word about imposition. If you are otherwise occupied you are free to decline, but it would be, if I am honest, a favor to me.”

Javert toys nervously with his sleeves. How can he politely refuse? It is not as if he has any social life to use as an excuse. And if the mayor wills it, then . . . “But I fail to see how it is a favor,” he stalls.

Madeleine’s expression flickers in a way Javert cannot read. He looks down, studying some papers which he straightens precisely. “I simply would like to know you better, Javert. As I said earlier, I know you already in a sense, and yet- When I demand so much of your time, it seems only proper I become acquainted with the man as well as I am the inspector.”

_Proper,_ thinks Javert incredulously. It is anything but. Madeleine is a gentleman far above his own station, and his superior besides. They are ill suited for a friendship.

And yet he finds himself nodding carefully. “Very well, Monsieur. If it is no trouble to you.”

Madeleine seems pleasantly surprised. Javert’s chest tightens. “Wonderful! Please, come at eight if that suits you. You know where I live?”

Javert nods numbly. His mouth is too dry to speak. Damn it all! 

The next ten minutes are spent in small talk, Javert slowly edging his way towards the door. Perhaps it is a preview of the night to come. Finally Madeleine stands to show him out, patting Javert’s back congenially. It is hard not to jump, as unused to touch as he is.  


“I shall see you tomorrow inspector!” The man calls after him as Javert descends the steps. He is kicking himself the whole walk home.

 

\---------------------------------

That night, he cannot sleep. A small wonder considering what he must face tomorrow.

How could he let this happen? It was not that Javert could not share a few pleasantries over a meal (it had never been his forte but he was not, as some doubtless assumed, socially inept.) No, the issue was this feeling of joy. When had he allowed this unseemly attraction to take root?

When he first met M. Madeleine- for this was before his mayorship- he had been immediately uncomfortable around the man, but in an entirely different way. There was something about him that seemed off, particularly in the way he looked at Javert, always from the corners of his eyes as if watching a dog one thinks apt to bite. It was suspicious. Javert had spent that first year watching Madeleine carefully each time they passed in the streets.

He walked, at times, with a limp. It smacked to Javert of the limp of a paroled convict, molded by time dragging a chain. He kept entirely to himself outside of his charity, despite the town’s obvious fondness for him. And then the incident with the cart- they way Madeleine had hoisted alone what several men combined could not do. That strength . . . A flash of the brute, 24601.

Javert scrubs his eyes tiredly and turns over. He focuses on the sharp scent of fresh linen, but even now the memory needles at him. How awful at the time, how his gut had dropped at the sight, how his blood had iced in his veins. Montreuil-sur-Mer was not by the sea and yet the scent of brine had crept into his nostrils.

But of course, more time in M-sur-M and the man’s appointment as mayor, these had led Javert to see himself a fool. A limp- many middle-aged men had one, the result of injury or simply age. And the reclusion- was not Javert himself prone to the same isolation? It did not make a man a criminal. And finally, the strength . . . That had been harder to dismiss. But surely Valjean could not be the only man with such strength, and it was well known that Madeleine had worked his way up from a lower status. All these years later and even Valjean should have been crushed by the weight of Toulon bearing down on him. Javert had never seen a prisoner, not even of the strongest steel tempered in the flames of hell, leave the place as more than a husk.

Even without these realizations, it had become clear how impossible it was that the mayor should be a convict, much less such a beast as Valjean. The man was genuine, devout, kind. Irreproachable. He had no discernible vices- he was too softhearted, perhaps, but a model citizen allt he same. No convict could climb so high. Javert had risen from his own hell, but that was because he had chosen the right side of the law. Even after his struggle, a police inspector would never be mistaken for a gentleman- what hope had a convict?

But why, why had the departure of suspicion left in its wake an infatuation? He was a grown man now and well-practiced in suppressing desire. Even in Toulon when his eyes had strayed he had simply thought of the howls drawn out by the lash. The visions of blood had easily quelled his urges for years, reminding him of what came from lusting after a man. 

A man . . . His mind strays to the patch of throat Madeleine’s loosened cravat had exposed, not very low but much lower than the man usually displayed. Was it worse or better to admire such a man? One so good and faultless was sullied in his thoughts, surely, but all the same it was not the base lust he had felt when looking at 24601.

Javert ignores the call of arousal. It becomes simpler still when he remembers whipping, whipping away his sins and perversions. The heat between his legs slowly begins to flag as he envisions bloodied flesh, and he thanks God.

He can be strong. He can smother his heart, so easily. He counts the twenty strokes.

\----------------------------------

Dinner the next evening is not insufferable. 

Javert takes extra care with his toilette beforehand; his motions as he shaves are mechanical and wonderfully distracting in their precision. The gleam of the straight razor as it flicks in his hand is quite pleasant. When he goes to dress he finds that the only proper attire he owns is now ill-fitting; since coming to M-sur-M he has gained a small amount of weight, not enough to see but enough to make an already tight suit quite unbearable looking. He silently mourns the loss of fast paced patrols in Paris, electing to wear his uniform instead.

When he arrives he is startled to find Madeleine himself opening the door rather than the housekeeper. “I let her have the weekend off to visit a sister,” he explains conversationally as he helps Javert from his greatcoat. He does not seem to notice how careful Javert is to avoid touching him in the process.

The food itself is simple- a hearty vegetable stew; some thickly sliced bread and butter. It is good and more importantly, Javert does not feel uncomfortable eating such a meal. The implication of course is that the mayor prepared it himself, and so Javert compliments this fact strategically without approaching flattery.

The conversation is mild but pleasant enough. Stilted at points, but not awkward. A glass of wine is pressed on him and he finds himself accepting, though he drinks very rarely.

“Tell me, Javert” Madeleine says, leaning back and pushing his emptied plate away. “Are you a religious man?”

Javert finishes his bite thoughtfully. “Yes Monsieur, I would suppose so.”

“Come, you sound uncertain. But I see you at mass each week- I am sure you will be there tomorrow, in fact.”

Javert inclines his head deferentially. “If those are the criteria then yes, Monsieur. But I am of course not as devout as you, and so I hesitate to claim it.”

Madeleine smiles. If Madeleine continues to smile, it will drive Javert mad. “Belief is not a competition, Javert. There is no use comparing devotions.”

“And sins, Monsieur?” Javert mutters before he can stop himself. The wine and atmosphere have made his tongue stupidly loose. He focused on mopping up the remainder of the stew with his bread.

In so doing, he misses the flash of Madeleine’s eyes. “All men sin.”

“On that we can agree” he murmurs. He takes a sip of wine and imagines it to taste of iron, of blood. He pushes his glass and plate away.

“Do you believe a man’s sins can be forgiven, if he repents?”

“The bible says so.”

“I did not ask what the bible says.”

Javert fidgets awkwardly with his napkin. It is the first time he has felt truly uncomfortable that evening. Discussing sins with this holy man, it simply strikes too near the root of his shame. “No, then. I think- I suppose sins may be forgiven in theory, but a true sinner will always be a sinner. I know you disagree Monsieur-le-Maire, for you are far kinder than I.”

“You are right that I disagree, Javert, but you are not unkind. You are always fair with the townspeople.”

“Fairness and kindness are not the same. I merely do the duty prescribed me to the best of my ability.”

There is an uncomfortable silence. “Give me your honest opinion,” Madeleine says finally, standing with a rattle to stack the dirtied plates busily. “You think me a fool, don’t you?”

“I would never-“

“Your opinion as my friend, Javert. Or if that can’t be managed, simply as an acquaintance. But not as my inspector.”

Javert pauses. Madeleine has ceased his tidying, is looking him in the eyes. Javert’s cheeks color at such intense scrutiny, at the strange fire he sees there.

“Only moderately,” he manages.

Madeleine’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. A pause. Suddenly he is laughing, loud and deep; Javert has never heard him laugh so before. Javert’s lips cannot help twitching in response, and the serious atmosphere is lifted.

Javert forgets his sins as they talk a while more, moving to the sitting room. Mostly it is about the town, for both of them are bachelors dedicated to their work and have little else on hand for conversation. But the nature of the talk is different than when similar topics are raised in Madeleine’s office; he offers his opinions more freely on Madeleine’s building plans, and in turn Madeleine debates over the necessities of certain laws. Javert even manages a few sardonic jokes. 

When Javert is finally on his way out the door, much later than is proper, Madeleine insists on helping him put on his great coat. “You have been my guest, Monsieur l’inspecteur,” he admonishes. “Let a lonely man have the novelty of seeing to a guest’s needs.”

The wording is so strange, almost suggestive- Javert mutely extends each arm as it is called for, hating his telltale pulse. Madeleine smells good so close, of something like wood smoke and honeysuckle. Just like when his coat was taken he is careful, so careful to avoid direct contact. But as they finish and Javert adjusts his collar, Madeleine presses his shoulder firmly and it burns like a convict’s brand. “Have a good night, Javert. Please, indulge me again soon.”

That night it takes forty imagined strokes of the lash for his erection to fade, and it is himself he sees on the post.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning- the next chapter will make use of the E rating. If that's not your cup of tea it might be the time to duck out.


	2. Montreuil-sur-Mer, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's where that E rating starts coming into play.
> 
> Slight warning for religious imagery. I myself am no longer religious, by the way, so if I made any glaring errors feel free to let me know.

_Montreuil-sur-Mer, Spring 1822_

“Please Javert, will you not sit?” The mayor entreats from behind his desk with obvious exasperation. 

“It is not necessary, Monsieur.” He stands across from where Madeleine sits, as he always does during his reports.

“Javert, you were at my home eating dinner not two nights ago. Surely you’re comfortable enough in my presence to sit. I’m sure I’ve seen you do it on several occasions.”

It’s true; the dinners have become as timely an appointment as the reports. Or nearly so, for accommodating the mayor’s busy schedule means that it is necessary to change the day, but it is a nearly weekly thing all the same. There have even been a few strolls together, always at the mayor’s invitation. Javert cannot stop himself from accepting, but lacks the presumption to ever extend such an invitation himself.

They’ve grown— close over these last several months. As close at any rate as Javert has been with another person, which is not very. 

“It is not that your presence discomfits me, Monsieur. It is only that it seems improper. This meeting is for business, association in our free time is for . . .” He trails off, hands fidgeting with his cuffs as he fumbles for his words.

“Pleasure?” Finishes the mayor with raised brow. Javert flushes. Madeleine has stood to pour a cup of tea— no, two cups of tea. Javert eyes them suspiciously with a tight-lipped nod. “Hm. Well, if you see this as purely a professional visit, you will be obliged to obey your mayor. I order you to sit.”

Javert stands frozen for a moment; it is an idiotic order made in jest, but an order all the same. He purses his lips unhappily but finally moves to obey, shooting Madeleine a glare. It is no use arguing with the man when he gets these silly notions. The chair he sinks into is plush, but he sits as straight as he can, gripping his knees loosely.

Madeleine grins, clearly pleased with himself, and reclines into his own chair. He pushes a cup of tea towards Javert as if it is the normal order of things.

Damn it. The tea is already poured, and it would be both rude and wasteful to refuse it. Javert mutely balances the saucer on his knee, taking a reluctant sip from the cup. He hates that the time they have spent together has allowed Madeleine such advantages over him. Meanwhile he is little better at reading the mayor for all the time he spends staring at him.

Madeleine hides a smile by taking a drink from his own cup. “You see how preferable this is to standing as stiff as a board while you speak?”

“Very slightly, I suppose.” He responds reluctantly.

\--------------------------------------------------

The next week a steaming porcelain cup awaits him. It is arranged innocuously, centered perfectly in front of the chair opposite Madeleine. 

The mayor makes an admirable play at pretending not to notice Javert until finally he crosses the room and sits down. He picks up the cup with an unhappy rattle of china.

It becomes a repeated ritual in the weeks thereafter.

\--------------------------------------------------

The dinners, the tea, the walks— they are driving Javert mad. He does not know how he can simultaneously abhor and breathlessly await each encounter, but he manages it. And his ritual at night, his imaginary self-flagellation— it does little now to quell his feelings. Not when Madeleine is so insistent on touching him, more and more now; friendly squeezes of the shoulder, lingering brushes on his back, the wiping of lint from his epaulettes. Like he is gentling a beast, getting a new horse used to his presence. And Javert falls for the trick every time, the bate of smiles and companionable silences.

He is making a fool of himself, if only _to_ himself.

\--------------------------------------------------

He is thinking of Madeleine while attending mass of all things.

Madeleine is one pew up from Javert, caddy-corner to his right. It is a difficult thing to not watch the man now and then from the corners of his eyes. And where he should be in awe only of God, he finds himself in awe of Madeleine.

He is never distracted from his worship the way Javert is. Currently Madeleine’s head is bowed with tangible humility during the prayer- while Javert recites by rote, he surreptitiously watches Madeleine’s lips stroke each syllable with the care of a lover. Even from this awkward angle and from furtive glances, Javert can see the depth of feeling that moves the mayor. To Javert this prayer is only a concept, exemplative of certain virtues and lessons, but a dead thing all the same. Rules to be followed, an abstract idea. He does not feel the meaning live and breathe through his bones as it seems to for Madeleine. 

He watches, knees aching from the cool floor of the church. As the Amen resounds throughout the pews there is a moment where Madeleine looks up towards the heavens. Where before his head was bowed in heartfelt supplication it is now raised high, eyes full of rapturous joy as if there is a damn thing on the ceiling besides old masonry and cobwebs. It is such an incredibly personal moment, the way Madeleine’s lips curve into a smile, and Javert snaps his eyes back to the priest at the congregation’s front with a guilty jerk. Everyone rises back to their seats. Javert keeps his eyes resolutely on the large gilded cross above the altar for as long as he can bear.

When Madeleine receives the Eucharist Javert is shocked at what flares in his belly at the sight of the mayor’s humble genuflection. It is lust, undeniably. He watches Christ’s body and blood pass pink lips, coloring them darkly, and he wonders what it would be to taste of the savior from the chalice of Madeleine’s mouth. He shivers numbly. 

Would such a thing be blasphemy or consecration?

These flights of fancy have become so much harder to suppress as of late, being as frequently in the mayor’s company as he is. He doesn’t understand the strange reverence within him, resents it. Madeleine’s virtues often lead him to foolish decisions; often lead Javert to annoyance and even anger. And yet his sureness, the steadiness of his convictions. These things are a glimpse of all Javert wishes for himself.

When it is Javert’s turn to receive the Eucharist he closes his eyes. He does not think of Monsieur Madeleine above him, offering him the body of Christ as one would a scrap to a half-starved dog. He does not think of nuzzling the worn fingers in thanks.

After mass, as the other parishioners mill about conversing, Javert awkwardly smiles and greets those he recognizes. It’s the proper thing, to spare a few moments to exchange pleasantries with people that he knows find his occupation distasteful. But being that they are all people of better status and wealth than he, he is not overmuch offended by their polite dismissals. Javert has friends outside of Madeleine- they are simply all policemen.

At some point the mayor notices him in conversation with Monsieur Granet the baker and wanders over just as the man bids him adieu. Javert pretends not to see him; church is the one common activity they have not taken to sharing, for Madeleine very clearly sees it as a personal experience. Javert is always wary to intrude, when he already feels himself a nuisance.

A warm arm wraps around his shoulders amicably. He feels Madeleine’s breath on him like a desert though they are not improperly close. “Dinner tomorrow, inspector?” It is as if they have been in conversation the whole time.

“Dinner? But we just ate together on Friday.”

“Is there a law for how often two friends may see each other? I’m sure you’d know it better than I.” 

Javert frowns as they both walk through the church door, Madeleine’s guiding hand finally leaving the small of his back as they hit fresh spring air. He ignores completely the jab about the law. “It is only that it seems unjust for you to host me so often when I have no way to return the favor. Twice so soon seems extravagant.” 

“It will be no imposition. My housekeeper will be visiting her sister again, this time for the week.”

“Again, and for so long? Monsieur, you let people take advantage of your kindness” Javert scolds, returning his hat to his head now that they stand outside. Madeleine does the same. He is so handsome in his Sunday best, with the bright skies behind him. Javert must cut a poor figure in comparison, he is aware.

“Her sister is ill, how can I hold her from a sick family member?”

Javert scoffs. “Sick, so she claims.” They have begun walking leisurely, arms folded behind them. It seems such a natural thing to walk home together, Javert does not even notice.

The mayor looks at him reproachfully, the corners of his mouth furrowing in displeasure. “ _Nonetheless_ ” he says, “I will be quite lonely. I shall not know what to do with an empty house for so long. It would be, as always, a favor to indulge me so.”

Javert watches his feet silently, considering. “Yes, fine. I will come.” They have stopped before Madeleine’s street. Madeleine grabs his hand as if grateful, shaking it. “Ah, thank you. You favor me far to often.”

Javert inclines his head, pulling his hand away reluctantly. “Not at all. I will see you tomorrow.”

The responding smile is winning. “Very good. Eight o’clock, Javert. Do not forget!” Madeleine gives one last wave before turning to leave. Javert watches him walk much longer than he has any right to.

\--------------------------------------------------

Remembering the bloody dirt that night is not enough. This thing is cresting in him.

He reads the bible before bed. It is as he once told Madeleine- he doesn’t see himself as particularly devout, does not go to confession or make much use of the little jet rosary hung above his bed. But reading, though the stillness it requires chafes him, is an exercise he attempts to maintain regularity in. It is how he escaped the ignorance of his childhood, and he is forever afraid to slip back into that pit.

The bible is one of the few books he currently owns, and a comforting reminder of his own place in the world. He is a man of the law at his core, and what is God’s word but the law made absolute?

He returns again to Corinthians 10:13, the page in his small leather backed bible dog-eared so that he may come to it on nights like this. He read the passage, lips moving silently. He reads it twenty times over before lying still in the small rickety bed and staring at the ceiling.

\--------------------------------------------------

“Javert, come in!” Greets Madeleine warmly. He is thankful for the pleasant weather, so that at least he is spared the ritual of his greatcoat being taken as if the mayor were a common servant. He half bows, removing his hat as he steps inside.

“Monsieur. I am very sorry I am late- Grégoire needed help with some paperwork and I’m afraid it kept me at the station later than I intended.”

Madeleine waves, leading him to the dining room. “Not at all. I know your duties come first.”

He is indeed late; it is very dark out already. Javert closes the door behind him and follows. “Yes, that is true. Still it would have been better to send a message ahead to let you know- I foolishly did not notice the time until it was too late.” Young Grégoire is a fine policeman in the streets, but his paperwork is absolutely appalling. It had taken two hours to unweave the web of misfiled, poorly written reports, and still he has no confidence that the man understood his errors.

“It is fine, Javert.” Madeleine turns to face him as they stop before the table. “Shall we eat? You must be starving.”

“You are certain it is not to late? I don’t wish to—“

“Impose, yes I know. Your manners make you repetitive. And so must I be when I remind you; you are never an imposition.”

Javert considers him carefully before reluctantly nodding. Madeleine must have kept the food warm, for the smell of it wafts to them enticingly and reminds Javert of the sharp pangs in his stomach. He has not had a chance to eat today other than a meager breakfast. “Well, let me help prepare at least. You must have put everything away when I didn’t show up.”

“Luckily I only made stew tonight. Much easier to keep warm and,” Madeleine seems almost embarrassed, “I don’t know how to cook much else. Nothing fit to serve a guest, at least.”

It takes only a moment to fetch the stew and ladle it out; the act of assisting in laying the table is so oddly domestic. It breaks the formal wall of host and guest that they have established over the last months. When they bump arms laying out cutlery and bowls they smile, and it is so easy. Not exactly like Javert belongs in this home, but perhaps like he is less glaringly out of place than before. 

The stew is rabbit and wild onion, mostly. As with the first meal he ate at this table he is struck by how ill suited a meal it is for a man of the mayor’s status. It would be considered a feast for a peasant, certainly, but the gentry of the town would not be caught eating such a thing with guests. For someone like Javert it is certainly more than adequate, and just as before it is rich and well-seasoned, full of tender meat.

“It’s good,” he comments as he takes a sparing sip of the wine. “You’re a talented chef, Monsieur. Of stews, at the least.”

“Well. I am only sorry I don’t have a more fitting meal for you. Now that you’ve grown used to my housekeeper’s cooking it must be a disappointment.”

Javert smirks. “Nonsense. It is better than my landlady’s cooking by half.”

“You mean to say that Monsieur l’inspector does not cook for himself?” teases Madeleine, eyes twinkling. He has stripped to his shirtsleeves and a wine-colored waistcoat this evening, no doubt because of Javert’s failure to appear, and the lines of it are quite distracting.

“I have never cooked,” remarks Javert simply with a shrug. “I was fed at the prison where I worked previously, and after that by my landlady in Paris, and now here.” Of course, he had eaten the prison food as a child as well, but the mayor need not hear that ignominy. 

“That’s not so uncommon. I enjoy cooking now and then, but I think it’s considered stranger for a man to know how, isn’t it? It’s supposed to be that a man is fed first by his mother, and then by his wife. Only bachelors might have the incentive, and even then many” he gestures at Javert with his spoon “simply pay the owners of their lodgings to do it.”

Javert nods and they are silent for a few moments as they work at their meal. It is so late already- really Javert should hurry so that he might leave, and yet he does not feel any incentive to do so. His patrol the next morning seems so distant. He would rather stay near Madeleine in the orange glow of the candlelight. The shadows on the strong jaw dance tauntingly as Madeleine stands to refill both of their wineglasses. He does not protest as he should, instead watches shamefully the tautness of the fabric round the mayor’s thick arms, the trimness of his hips when compared to broad shoulders. 

He does not know why he accepts the offer to stay after dinner in the sitting room. True, it has become something of a habit after their meals, but it is already eleven by his pocketwatch. Perhaps it is the wine.

Javert is not an indulgent man and usually takes only one glass, and that only out of politeness. But tonight he has drank more than usual, enough to feel the pleasant warmth in his belly and the buzz in his bones.

Maybe this is also why he is not overmuch surprised when Madeleine opts to sit next to him on the settee rather than his usual armchair. He says he wishes to watch the fire; the settee is the better view. Javert does not blame him, for the armchair faces the settee and he knows he would not wish to stare at himself for any length of time either.

Javert is actually rather drowsy when Madeleine finally breaks the quiet. “You know Javert, you could have someone cook for you properly each night if you married.” His tone is conversational, but Javert can feel him watching his face. He huffs, annoyed.

“I do not think a man should marry simply to have a cook.”

Madeleine smiles, Javert can see it from the corner of his eyes. The fire smells like Madeleine, or, no— Javert supposes it is vice versa.

“I agree, but all the same. I’ve seen more than a few women try speaking with you.”

Javert’s head turns sharply. His lips are an unhappy tilt. “Have I been rude to the ladies of this town?”

Madeleine raises his hands placating. “No, no. You are always courteous Javert. It is only—“

Javert’s eyebrows rise expectantly.

“Well, only that when women give you any kind of attention, you seem bored.”

“As bored as I am with anyone who wastes my time.” He mutters defensively. He feels that familiar shame twisting in him like a cold knife between his ribs.

“I mean, that is to say . . .” Madeleine wipes a hand across his face. “I’m making an ass out of myself, aren’t I? I only meant to say that it surprises me you are a bachelor.”

Javert snorts, squinting at Madeleine. “Me? A police inspector nearing his forties isn’t exactly a catch.” He takes another drink of his wine, pointedly avoiding the other man’s gaze. “And you yourself are the most eligible bachelor in Montreuil-sur-Mer. The women fawn over you unceasingly.” He can’t suppress a grimace of distaste. 

“As usual you undervalue yourself” Madeleine says, and there is something funny about his voice. 

He slides his eyes to the left as he sets down his empty glass. Madeleine is still watching him, his own glass abandoned on the side table. Their legs brush.

“I am accustomed to being alone.” He says quietly. It is unbearably hot beneath his collar, but he is afraid to move. The mayor has left their legs pressed together in a line, and to break the contact might undo him.

Madeleine’s voice is so soft, and there is something deepening it when he speaks, like he is half choked. “Do you never grow lonely, being alone?”

“I might ask you the same.”

Madeleine looks down. “Then I might answer that I do. I am just a man.” Javert squeezes his eyes shut. This is – they have never talked like this before. The mayor sounds strangely raw, broken. He pulls his leg away as if that might save him from the strange tension that has developed so suddenly.

“Why do you shy from my touch, Javert?” Whispers the mayor urgently, grasping his arm. “Always, you avoid me as if it pains you.”

“I do not know what you—“

“ _Yes you do._ ” Madeleine hisses. “Why?” Javert swivels his head towards him limply. The grip on his arm is a shackle, he can feel the red lines of the lash starting on his back. The mayor’s eyes are wild, wild like Valjean’s, and it breaks him.

“Because, Monsieur” he spits. He is trembling, “I am afraid.”

“Afraid?” Madeleine’s grip is tightening on him like a vice.

“Afraid of what I- What I might do.”

One moment Madeleine is searching his face and then, then he must find what he was looking before because he is kissing him, and Javert lets out a broken noise of confusion and utter want. He kisses back though he does not know how, and his lips are sticky with wine and the mayor is pushing in his tongue, is grabbing his shirt so fiercely the seams may pop.

Madeleine is practically on top of him, hand grasping his hair as he gasps into his lips, “Javert, you do knot know” he pulls back to stare into Javert’s eyes, frantic. “You do not know how I have tried-“ and he breaks off again, lips falling to the flushed skin of Javert’s neck to suck and bite and kiss. 

Javert pushes Madeleine away carefully. The verse from last night echoes in his mind. 

_There hath no temptation taken you but such as man can bear:_

Madeleine looks momentarily hurt, confused, but then Javert slides from the settee to his knees, shrugging off his jacket clumsily. His cheeks are red, he knows this, and oh how his heart thunders. He would make himself an offering to the mayor.

Madeleine watches mutely, lips parted. His hand twitches on the cushion.

_But God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able:_

He cannot look Madeleine in the eye. He moves instead, slides his hands up the powerful thighs. Undoes Monsieur-le-Maire’s flies, fumbling like a fool, blood pumping too loudly to allow for any finesse.

_But will with the temptation make also the way of escape, that ye may be able to endure it._

Madeleine tilts Javert’s chin up with a thumb, looks into his eyes questioningly. It is a chance to stop, to excuse himself and beat a hasty retreat. It would mean this would be over, that Javert would have conquered the sinful lust in his heart.

He finishes opening Madeleine’s trousers. He pulls free the erection within, shuddering at the strange softness of the skin. The fire within him flares at the noise it elicits. He leans forward, intending to worship, to turn his own ravening desire into a devotion. “Monsieur le Mayor” he whispers. But Madeleine halts him suddenly with a choked noise.

“No, not tonight” he breathes, pulling Javert back to the settee with oddly strong arms until they lay pressed tightly together. “I do not want you to look at me like that, like I am some holy thing.” Madeleine works at Javert’s trousers, pulls him free. He is so hard it is painful, harder than he has been in his life. “I am a man, Javert, no better than you.” He presses their lips together and Javert moans shamefully as their hips bump together the first time. 

Their lips slide slickly, breathy moans escaping as Javert’s tentative thrusts turn to shameful rutting. He is in bliss, to know relief after these many long years of suppressing himself, does not understand this mercy the mayor gives him but grasps for it greedily. 

Madeleine’s hands roam his body, sliding under his shirt, grabbing desperately at his rear as they thrust. It is so quick, so terribly quick a way to be damned. At some point their hands find eachothers pricks and stroke madly, trying shakily not to fall from the settee, and when Javert comes it is with a muffled sob against the mayor’s neck. Madeleine comes then too— Javert’s bliss shivered mind does not understand why he moans “Javert” as he spends, as if it is a precious word.

All they can do for a moment is lie panting, fluid seeping into their clothes. Javert is not sure if the expansion is his chest is hollowed or full to bursting. He sees himself on the whipping post with a heart stopping clarity.

He moves to get up but Madeleine’s lips on his forehead are a benediction and he finds himself frozen. “Stay,” he whispers softly.

Javert stays.


	3. Montreuil-sur-Mer, Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This fic feels a bit like a stilted mess, so I'm dividing it into a series of (eventually) three fics. First I'm splitting Chapter 1 (Toulon) off and keeping all of Montreuil-sur-Mer together (there is still one more chapter to be written after this.) The next fic will take place in Paris and will also be a part of the same series. It just makes more sense for the pacing, I think, to have separate fics that are part of the same universe.
> 
> As always, constructive criticism/comments/kudos are loved! Thanks for reading so far, guys.

_Montreuil-sur-Mer, Summer 1822_

Javert has begun taking extra shifts at the station until his eyes are forced to close at night, until his tired mind can dream of nothing. Not calloused hands on his body, not the crack of tarred cord.

He sits at his desk after one such shift, flipping grimly through reports that must be signed off on. It is quite late, and he must be up early the next day for a morning patrol. The bags under his eyes weigh him down, but with them comes the blessed relief of single-mindedness, and so it is a weight he will bear.

It is Gregoíre who finally snaps him from the task. He has not even noticed anyone enter his office until a concerned “Monsieur?” sounds out.

He looks up tiredly, setting down the papers in his hands. To be so inattentive is unlike him. “Well?” He asks wearily.

Gregoíre attempts a pathetic salute. “Monsieur. I am sorry for bothering you, but—“  
Javert raises his eyebrows pointedly.

“—But, well. You have been working nearly thirteen hours, Monsieur. It is the third night in a row.”

Javert glances at where his pocket watch lays on the desk, old and scratched as it is. “Yes, you are right. Well?”

Gregoíre’s posture is relaxed, shoulders curved as ever. Javert notes with displeasure how skinny the man still is; he has told him more than once to eat more, that he can’t serve the town on an empty stomach. He suspects the brunt of Gregoíre’s pay is put towards wooing that barmaid Javert has seen him with.

“Well, it is just. Shouldn’t you go home to rest? You’re always here.” He tucks a strand of his silly floppy hair back. “It seems like you don’t do anything now besides work. And see the mayor, of course.”

Javert’s lips twitch in irritation “I hardly see Monsieur-le-Maire, and only on business. And it is no— Crime to love one’s work.” He nearly says sin. Sin is a thing he avoids thoughts of as much as is possible, these days.

Gregoíre shrugs. “I suppose not, Monsieur. But you truly do need a rest.”

Javert does not hear him. His mind is picking at something like a scab. What Gregoíre said has stuck in his gullet. “Why do you mention how often I see the mayor? Is there so little to gossip about?”

“Oh that?” Gregoíre chuckles nervously. “It is just a joke amongst the men. The mayor asks for your presence so often that they say he courts you as he would a _mademoiselle_.”

Javert schools his face into careful neutrality, but inwardly he blanches. He had not realized that their association outside of the _mairie_ had even been noticed. The men must merely jest or Gregoíre would not dare mention it, but still it rankles. He stands suddenly, shuffling papers on his desk as if with purpose. He pretends not to notice Gregoíre’s jump backwards.

“Yes, very amusing. Perhaps if you all spent more time on your work and less on silly jokes, I would not have to stay so late sorting out paperwork.” 

He regrets his harsh tone immediately as Gregoíre visibly deflates; the young officer still has not learned to take such comments on the chin. “Yes Monsieur, you are right,” he mumbles with a half-bow, turning to leave.

Javert sighs and passes a hand over his face. “Gregoíre!” He calls. The younger man freezes and looks back over his shoulder, clearly expecting more scolding. “You did fine work yesterday, chasing down that pickpocket. I had meant to tell you. Well done.”

Gregoíre’s face slowly spreads into a grin and he nods, leaving with a noticeable joviality to his gait.

Javert sinks back into his chair, rubbing at the lines beneath his eyes. So, people have noticed his dinners with Monsieur-le-Maire. What does it matter? There is no bribery, no corruption. The people do not seem to even suspect that much- they are both addicted to their work, and no doubt it is all thought to be business. 

The joke about the courting though, it is surprisingly painful.

Truthfully, since that first night together they have not touched each other. Even the mayor’s usual friendly pats and handshakes are gone, as if- as if he cannot bear to touch Javert. Javert remembers waking not an hour after their tryst, for the settee was not built to comfortably sleep two full-grown men and he had been dangling half off. His thigh had been crusted with his own spend, his stomach flipping nauseously at the feeling. He had left after making himself as presentable as is possible when one has stained trousers and a kiss bruised neck, and he had not bothered to wake Madeleine. He had been terrified. Disgusted. Numb.

He did not know what to expect thereafter. What could that evening have meant?

The answer, apparently, was nothing. The first time they’d seen each other after, during the weekly report, neither had mentioned the event. There was something like far off sorrow in Madeleine’s eyes, and surely regret. But he had not commented on Javert’s disappearance, had called him Inspector the whole meeting and not smiled genuinely a single time. Javert simply followed his lead. It had been a fluke, then. He should have known better than to think a man like the mayor might debase himself for a lowly inspector, let alone Javert.

And yet somehow the dinners continue. Each week the mayor still asks him, as if by rote. It would be so much easier to say no, to end the torment of spending each evening in suspense. But each time Javert goes, and they speak pleasantly enough, if not quite as easily or freely as before. And each time, Javert catches himself staring at things he should not. The always clean-shaven jaw, the curve of Madeleine’s rear in fine trousers. He feels the longing even more acutely, now that he has known relief from it. 

The smell of wood smoke has begun to make him nervous, regardless of context.

But it is – better this way. Truly, what had he expected? To be anything more than one night’s mistake? The wine, the mayor’s admitted loneliness; that had been all.

He readies his things to go home with the thoughtlessness of habit. Where work fails, self recrimination is best avoided in the dark of sleep.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Madeleine’s office on a stuffy summer’s night not two weeks later, and Javert practically stumbles in. He grips the doorframe for support and winces at the answering pang in bruised ribs.

Madeleine does not even look up. His hand is a blur on the papers he writes. “Ah, Javert. I was beginning to think you had forgotten your report. It’s unlike you to be so late.”

Javert manages to stride to the desk relatively steady, ignoring the protests of his muscles so that he may bow stiffly. He long ago mastered pain. To show such a thing when one’s position in the world is so easily filled is always a mistake, regardless of friendships. “I apologize deeply, Monsieur. I was- detained.” He hopes his split lip does not alter his voice. It feels quite thick between his teeth.

Madeleine taps his pen and looks up, clearly unimpressed until his eyes find Javert. “My god man, your face!” He is up and around the desk before Javert can so much as flinch. He casts his eyes down nervously as the mayor peers at him from this way and that in concern. He knows from the looking glass in the station that he looks dreadful- an eye swollen shut and purpled, cuts and tears sporadically marring his uniform.

“There was a fight at an inn, Monsieur. I’m afraid it kept me late; nearly fifteen inebriates and only I and one of my men to break them up.” He cannot stand for Madeleine to see him this way. He itches to run.

Madeleine shakes his head in disbelief, pressing Javert into a chair. He finds himself too boneless to object.

“They were so – so violent?”

“Some scattered when we arrived. But drink will make many men belligerent, and the wine had apparently been flowing freely. Please, Monsieur-“ he stays the older man’s hands, which are turning his face back and forth in examination. “I am fine.”

He has never received such a stern glance. Madeleine gestures at one of the larger cuts in his uniform, which has left a button dangling sadly by a single thread. “And this?”

Javert looks down. “Ah. Two of them had knives. They were too drunk to make any real use of them.”

Madeleine reaches to undo the remaining buttons of his coat, clearly alarmed. “My god Javert, you could have been _killed_.” Javert moves breathlessly to stop him but his wrist is encircled in an iron grip and pressed aside. Madeleine pins him with another glare. “ _Hold still_.”

Javert cannot help but obey, focusing on the iron tang of his cut lip.

Once Madeleine has gotten the coat open he gasps softly. At first Javert is confused, and then he looks down and sees the small splotches of red that stain his white shirt.

Madeleine crouches down beside him and he cannot help but flush. “Monsieur, the knife barely grazed me- I am surprised I bled at all. Let me give my report and—” Madeleine stays him with a hand on his chest.

“Sit,” he orders, standing and moving to rummage through his desk drawers. Javert cannot move. It is the most the mayor has touched him in months. Madeleine returns to his side. “On the desk.” He says matter of factly. Clutched in his hand are bandages. He has pours a nearby pitcher of water into a bowl he produces as if from thin air, and he sets this on the desk edge along with a bar of what Javert assumes to be soap.

“I do not-“

“Javert. Sit, on the desk. Now, please.” They mayor has never used this tone on him, firm and commanding and yet soft with concerned reproach. He finds his mouth too dry to argue and so he rises with a wince and pulls himself on to the desk, so that his legs dangle and his hands clench the edge. He feels disturbingly like an obedient dog.

Madeleine nods approvingly, moving to help remove Javert’s uniform coat the rest of the way. His hat topples from his lap to the ground and neither of them move to retrieve it.

“This is unnecessary” Javert murmurs. The blood pulses behind his black eye, irritating him further. “I have barely been scratched.”

Madeleine hmms, draping a rag over the bowl’s edge. “The cuts need cleaned and bandaged all the same.” He moves his hands to undo Javert’s shirt buttons but freezes suddenly, withdrawing them to fidget with the rag again. He clears his throat. “Please, your shirt. Open it.”

Yes, of course the mayor wishes to touch him as little as possible. It would give the wrong impression. Javert complies with nimble fingers. Each movement is exacting and precise. He does not know why the mayor insists on this, but he will show he is fine. First the cravat, and then the buckle of his thick leather stock, too like a collar at the moment for his taste. He sets these aside and works at the shirt.

When his shirt gapes open, Madeleine turns back to him with soaped rag in hand. Javert tries not to swallow. Despite what they had done in the spring, Madeleine has not seen his bared flesh. No one has, not since he was a child. He is sure he is less than appealing, but in this context he reminds himself it does not matter. It is just Madeleine being an over involved twit once again. Directing his misguided charity at Javert.

The cuts, he notes, are as inconsequential as he thought. They would have to be, for him to not have noticed. A few of maybe four inches length and no real depth on his chest and abdomen, so thin it is as if a cat clawed him. A cat with one claw, at any rate. They need rinsed of blood, but certainly not bandaged.

He keeps his eyes resolutely to the side when Madeleine finally moves with a jerk, as if catching himself staring.

“Oh Javert” he says softly, gently cleaning the first. Javert winces but it is not out of pain.

“These are nothing. You waste time I could be using to brief you.” He says it gruffly, but his eyes flick to watch Madeleine’s hand as it rinses the rag and soaps it again. It moves so gently for something so large. The man’s shirtsleeves have gotten wet, clinging to his wrists, and how strange he would not just roll them up to keep them out of the way.

“They need cleaned all the same. I see from your scars you have long been this careless.” The rag is on his ribs now, swiping away at a dried rivulet of blood.

Javert swallows. He watches openly now how Madeleine moves, the curly head tilted in focus. A flash, of the settee that night. A flash of red lines so unlike those on his own body. “Care may sometimes stand between a prey and his quarry.”

The ministrating hand clenches subtly round the wetted rag. Javert is not sure why. Disgust, he tells himself. Shame at touching him.

“Is it not better to go on living, that you may find further hares betwixt your teeth?” Madeleine’s voice is hushed. He sets down the rag, moves to pull the shirt from Javert’s shoulders. Again his hands hesitate and Javert does it instead.

“I have managed both.” He says, setting aside his shirt. He is bared now, and Madeleine’s eyes are on him like a plague. Shameful lust curls in his belly and he does not think of what Madeleine’s lips might taste like now, with no wine to dilute their flavor. His shoulders hunch unthinkingly. “If you had seen the things I have, Monsieur, you would realize the insignificance of these scrapes.” 

“I have seen my fair share of horrors. If anything it has taught me that even the smallest hurt must be cared for.” Madeleine begins applying the bandages. Each accidental brush of his broad thumb sends Javert’s heart into his throat. He thinks he may be choking on it.

They are silent as Madeleine finishes. Javert keeps his eyes pressed shut to avoid the weight of that gaze.

“There, it is done.”

He opens his eyes in relief, only to find Madeleine’s face dangerously close to his own. He can see every line and wrinkle in the mayor’s face. A rough hand rises to cup his cheek; the thumb dabs experimentally under his swollen eye. He hisses in surprise.

“Does it hurt?”

“I am used to it.” He does not think they speak wholly of the bruise. His pulse leaps. Madeleine does not move away, places his other hand beside Javert’s hip on the desk, and now he is effectively caged in. 

“I do not like seeing you hurt, even inconsequentially. You push yourself too hard.” The hand remains. Hot blood pounds underneath the thumb.

“Respectfully, Monsieur, it is not your concern.”

Lips press to his forehead. He jerks as if slapped. “I tell you it is” the lips whisper, mere inches away. A beat. And then, much quieter; “Why did you leave, that night?”

“Why do you continue to invite me to dinner, but never to stay?” He counters. Madeleine looks away. His hand falls from Javert’s face to bracket his other hip on the desk. The way the mayor leans, their legs are brushing. “Because I can not stand to be without your company. But I-“

“I disgust you.” It is quiet. He does not mean to say it.

The mayor looks stricken; Javert can see it from the corner of his eye. “What?”

“It is disgusting. The things I wanted. When I fell to my knees you stopped me. You—“

Madeleine huffs a strangled laugh. “I stopped you because- you did it as an inferior would. You did not see me.” The next is quiet, muttered. “I kissed you because I thought, for a moment that you did.”

Javert feels an inexplicable anger. To be asked these things, and coddled like- like a _boy_. “Let me up” he snarls. Madeleine does not move. “You say I do not know you. Then let me up.” He has pulled his legs back as far as he can. His knuckles are white against the dark polish of the desk.

Madeleine tilts his head. “No, you know me. You just do not see.” And then he presses his lips to Javert’s and Javert cannot breathe, stifled by the sudden remembrance of the muggy heat. His hands do not leave the desk but his mouth opens under Madeleine, soft and pliant. All these months he had thought himself strong; and now he wants only for Madeleine’s light to fill him, to scour away his hate and his doubt.

Hands roam up his sides, lightly over the bandages to prevent disturbing them but rough over all else. He should protest at the twinge of his bruised ribs, but cannot. The mayor, rough and demanding- it is what he wants as teeth begin to pull clumsily at his lips, tongue running tenderly over the cut.

“You drive me mad” Madeleine chokes. Javert only moans as an insistent thumb nudges him painfully in the side. “You use yourself so harshly and then tell me I have not _the right_ to object.”

“I am sorry,” he breathes. His hands shakily find the mayor’s back; Madeleine stiffens momentarily before returning to the task of pressing clumsy kisses to Javert’s skin. Even the dim light of the lamps is harsh, searing. He closes his eyes again, buries a hand in Madeleine’s curls as their teeth click. It feels odd, almost as if there are scars there, beneath the hair. Madeleine grabs the hand, forces it to the desk, and the almost hurt of it snaps Javert’s mind from the train of thought.

“You thought I found the idea of you on your knees disgusting?” It is not a question really, but it is breathed into his ear all the same. Javert manages a nod. “No. I have- thought about it, since. But you did it as if it were a debasement.”

“It is not,” Javert mumbles. His cock strains his trousers horribly. 

Madeleine nods. He presses a hand to Javert’s chest, pushing him flat on the desk and climbing up over him. The water bowl is knocked to the floor. Javert cannot suppress a wince of pain and Madeleine freezes.

“I have hurt you.”

“It is nothing. Only my ribs.” His hips hitch against his will.

Madeleine looks guilty, gently urging Javert to scoot up the desk until only his feet hang off. The wood is blessedly cool beneath his back. “I use you as harshly as you use yourself,” he murmurs, hand stroking up Javert’s arm far gentler than before. “I will make it up to you.”

The sight of the mayor moving backwards to straddle just above Javert’s knees stops his heart. The hands undoing his trousers are purposeful, gently but effortlessly raising Javert’s hips to push his clothing past his thighs.

Javert steels himself. Surely Madeleine means to take him. He heard and saw enough of the “marriages” at Toulon to know what it entails.

But instead Madeleine leans down, head bent to lick a tentative stripe up Javert’s flushed cock. He bucks in surprise and hands anchor his hips in place.

“You need not-“

“If it is no debasement, Javert” murmurs Madeleine, “than you shall let me.”

It is so hot. But the heat of the mayor’s mouth is a fire all its own, clumsily enveloping what Madeleine can fit, kisses beneath the head like a balm. Javert tries to push his hips up because he knows he can not, because it thrills him to feel such strength pressing him still. 

The desk is painful against his tired shoulders. His ribs twinge at his writhing, and Madeleine’s teeth keep brushing him dangerously.

He tries to pull Madeleine away when he feels he is close, but the man merely tongues at his slit and meets his gaze. He sees the fire in those eyes and hopes it is not hellfire. He spirals into it regardless.

He unthinkingly buries his hand in Madeleine’s hair, propping himself on an elbow before it is all over. And as he threads fingers through the close cropped curls he feels the strange ridges again; scars now, he is sure of it. Scars like those he had seen on-

“Valjean” he grunts into his own shoulder as he comes, body slamming back to the desk so harshly his ribs fairly scream. He shudders through the after shocks with gasps like rattled bones, and Madeleine’s mouth does not leave him to the last. 

He stares at the ceiling in terror of what he’s just imagined. Imagined only, surely, but to come apart at the thought of that beast was a surer damnation than anything else they’ve done. He hears rather than sees Madeleine reach his own completion. He had not even noticed him take out his cock. 

They lay in panting silence.

Madeleine finally moves off the desk, standing awkwardly. Javert hurriedly does the same, pulling up his underclothes and trousers and refastening them. It is a slick mess between his legs but he starts on his shirt next, suddenly ashamed of how exposed he is.

He cannot tell if the mayor heard him; if he did, he does not comment on it. Yet the eyes are watching him as he shoulders into his coat, and when he meets them they are sad. Almost guilty.

“I fear-” Madeleine begins, turning away pensively.

“-That you have made a mistake.” The shoulders tense further.

“That is not what I was going to say.”

Heavy resignation falls on Javert, then. He understands why he has done these things. He understands why he cannot continue. “Then let me say it for you. We can not continue to see each other like this.” Javert picks up his hat, clutching it so resolutely the brim bends. He is making himself stone again. It is easier when he knows that the source of his attraction to Madeleine is something so sordid, and not the love he had almost fooled himself into believing. 

Madeleine turns and the look on his face is tortured. Like he is caught between relief and distress. He must know, inwardly. “Not even- chastely?”

“You know as well as I it would only happen again. You are my superior. I can not in good conscience continue this.” It is surprisingly easy, to stare Madeleine straight in the eye once in uniform again. It is an easy wall to hide behind.

Madeleine’s lips twitch wryly and he looks away. “And I cannot in good conscience convince you otherwise.”

Javert nods. The heat is smothering. He walks to the door.

The voice behind him is quiet, pleading, as if about to ask him to stay as it did on that spring night. “Javert-“

He ducks his head and leaves.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The dinner invitations cease. Their weekly reports are awkward and stiff, but tolerable; more than once Javert expects Madeleine to say something, even just to invite him to his home. It is the way he sometimes watches Javert as he reports, eyes darting away when he meets them. Or the way Madeleine licks his lips as Javert turns to leave, as if preparing to speak. But it does not happen. Javert is glad, because past experience has proved the man intractable when a mood strikes him. Or perhaps it is just that Javert has bent too easily for him thus far.

He has switched congregations; the new priest, if somewhat more long winded and bumbling, expounds serviceably on heaven and hell. Surely it is better for Javert’s soul to avoid temptation this way.

Thinking of Valjean in that moment of passion with a good man had convinced him their relapse was wrong. Madeleine is a saint and yet Javert had quite clearly seen the devil. All from a few scars, scars more likely from a rough childhood than the life of a galley slave. It proves that Javert’ perversion runs deeper than his lust for men, and it proves he is unworthy of Madeleine. If the man knew, he’d surely understand Javert’s decision. As it is he makes no case against it.

He continues shouldering the brunt of the extra shifts and patrols. He continues reading his bible at night, and tamping down the loneliness he never expected to feel.


	4. Montreuil-sur-Mer, Part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for this chapter: there's a dream sequence near the end with some slightly disturbing imagery. If you're triggered by minor mentions of hand wounds, references to "drinking blood" (wine) and other pseudo-religious nightmare imagery, just skip the section that mentions Javert dreaming.

_Montreuil-sur-Mer, Winter 1822_

There is no conscious moment where Javert begins to again watch the mayor with something other than admiration. There is only the slow slide into suspicion.

Without Madeleine’s constant presence clouding his mind, he simply starts to notice things again. Perhaps it was that accidental thought of Valjean when the mayor took him in his mouth that leads him to associate the man with anything other than goodness. Either way it is a struggle between the unfortunate regard that remains and the re-awakening of Javert’s impartiality. It is a relief, a bitter relief to no longer be blind to the mayor’s eccentricities. Like a bloodhound re-finding its sense of smell. The few times he is in Madeleine’s presence there is still the tightening in his chest- but now it is accompanied by wariness. Madeleine’s limp in the winter months is more pronounced than ever. Javert studies it as he studies his bible at night.

Still, it is not until that night in January that he _knows_. 

As Madeleine dismisses him, turning to go with the whore in his arms, there is a moment where she clutches desperately at his collar. The cravat pulls aside and it is through the soft flurry of snow that Javert sees.

Sees beneath a high cut collar pulled momentarily open by the wretch’s desperate grasp. Sees a small patch of skin above the collar bone, and it is just a flash, just for a second.

He sees the worn mark of a prisoner’s iron collar, often used for punishment and known to invariably leave a scar if worn with frequency, the same way the chain is known to leave a limp.

Valjean had just such a scar, just such a limp. And Valjean had the strength to lift that card from Fauchelevent’s broken body.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------

Writing to the prefecture had brought Javert back his sense of self alongside the anger of being fooled and used. Finding out he is wrong brings him a kind of sick relief alongside his guilt.

Javert remembers the words of the other guards; _Javert has no heart._ He is not sure if it is worse that they were wrong, or that he has so impressively wounded it all on his own.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------

He would prostrate himself physically before Madeleine if it were appropriate. He must settle for a figurative prostration instead.

There is something in the mayor’s face that does not quite make sense when Javert explains his crime; when he tells him the real Valjean has been caught. Stricken and then drawn. But perhaps it is just resignation to the fact that Javert is a disappointment, a Judas.

And still both his request for dismissal and attempt at resignation are refused. “Monsieur,” he grits, hand trembling slightly on the pommel of his sabre. “Please do not do this.”

Madeleine frowns. He has the air of a man distracted, who is not sure he hasn’t missed a piece of the conversation. “Do what, Javert?”

“Ask me to maintain an office I do not deserve, out of charity.”

Madeleine rubs his face. “It is not charity to have a job done by the best man for it. You reported me because you thought I was a criminal. The fact you were wrong does not fault you for doing so.”

“It does. I had insufficient evidence to defame a citizen of your stature –“

“You thought you had enough or you wouldn’t have done it.”

Javert sucks in a breath to calm himself. “I was acting on emotion. Not fact. If one of my men did the same, he would be dismissed.”

 

“Emotion?” Madeleine asks. For the first time since the confession his eyes seem to actually focus on Javert. “You mean –about Fantine.”

The mere mention of her name heats Javert’s blood. He resists correcting the mayor by terming her whore. “I stand by what I said that night, at least. You interfered with the course of justice. But – you are the mayor. I can not slander you because of a disagreement.”

“Was that truly the only reason?” Madeleine still seems agitated. He sits unusually stiff and still. Javert cannot fault him if it is out of barely suppressed anger.

“Pardon me Monsieur, but no. There is your limp, and your strength. That day you saved Fauchelevent, I remembered it –“

“I am not young, so I limp. That cart – fear gives many men strength, and I was not born a bureaucrat. I have worked in my life.” Madeleine’s eyes flash strangely as he speaks. His words are terse. 

Javert resists flinching. “It is as you say, Monsieur.”

“That was all?”

Javert swallows, closing his eyes. He must be honest, after what he has done behind a good man’s back. He clears his throat and stares straight ahead. “No. That night, the woman, she pulled loose your collar. There was a scar, and it reminded me of others I had felt on you when – On those nights.” To remember the thing stings him as a long absent limb might. Madeleine had once trusted him, and he had repaid him like this.

The mayor is silent for a long time. “I was –misused, when young.” He says gruffly.

“You need not explain.” Javert says quietly. “Anger made me misinterpret these things.”

Madeleine nods once, slowly. There is a beat and then he musters a strained smile. “And as I said, you are forgiven. You will retain your post.”

Javert is ashamed of the relief he feels, to be denied. He knows what he deserves, and yet it is hard to throw oneself from a cliff, no matter how honorable the death. He hadn’t even known what he was to do had he been successful.

Still, it is wrong. He knows that. This is meant to be a brief reprieve, and that is all. He bows his head. “I will do so until you find a proper replacement, Monsieur.”

He does not see how Madeleine covers his face and sags after he leaves.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

Javert’s stride is sure and strong down the hospital hall, the worn floor clicking beneath his boots. His hand is on the pommel of his sword, but he does not shake. His chin is high and his face is stone. He is the calm before the storm.

The door is not barred when he opens it. He does not throw it open dramatically, but with precision. There is Valjean, sitting beside the whore’s bed, cradling her hand with utmost compassion; to see the veneer of the holy man on this convict would be a fresh blow if Javert were not blissfully hollow. Perhaps it is the shock, still. It doesn’t matter.

As he advances on the scene Valjean does not raise his head. His lips are moving urgently, whispering something to the woman. The room reeks of infirmity and death, but there are no other patients. The nuns have all been ordered to stay away until Javert has his man.

“You will come with me.” He says simply. There is no response from Valjean, just a look of mute anxiety. The harlot’s pitifully tufted head turns to face Javert. Her eyes are confused, glassy. “Now!” barks Javert. His fingers itch to draw his blade and have done with it all.

Valjean stands, shoulders back, but does not move. “Please –Javert, if you have any regard left for me –“ The woman looks between them in confusion, struggling to push herself further up the pillows on which she is propped. Valjean stills her with a gentle touch and Javert’s stomach turns.

“I have no regard for a convict.” He bites.

Valjean’s eyes flick to the woman nervously. “I need three days, three days only –“

He growls, “Have you not had enough stolen time? To think I would fall for –“

“Please, it is Fantine’s daughter. I have promised to take her from the horrible place she was left, only three days Javert-“ 

The woman’s brow knits, chapped lips parting dumbly. “But- is Cosette not here?”  
Javert’s nostrils flare. “Is that what you told her?” He directs the next at Fantine. “The noble mayor said he would save your child?” Valjean is looking at him pleadingly, desperately. “He is a liar. He is not a mayor, he is a _convict_.” He sneers it, feeling a fresh wave of hate and humiliation. The woman is crying something, but he can not hear over the fury in his own voice. “He has no intention of saving your child. He merely wants another excuse to _run_.” 

He has begun edging around the bed. He must scream his words to cover the cries of the woman now. She is shaking violently, but he does not see, for his eyes are on the beast in fine clothing who stoops frantically to try and calm her. “He is Jean Valjean, he is _24601_ , and he is going back to the bagne!”

Valjean makes no attempts at throwing him when he grabs his arm. It burns to touch him but he must. He remembers the bloody ridges in the back, and not the gentling of hands on his body.

Suddenly it is silent.

Fantine has stopped her shrieking. He looks to see her, unnaturally still. Valjean shrugs off his hand and in his alarm Javert allows it.

Valjean bows his head. “She is dead,” he says quietly. He smooths her brow and Javert knows it is so – the glassy eyes stare unseeing. He watches as Valjean kneels, whispering something inaudible to the frail body. His heart still jolts against his ribs. 

His next words are choked. “You will not have your three days. You will come with me now.”

Valjean stands tiredly, raising the sheet over the still form with reverence. He turns slowly and nods. “Very well. I will not resist.” 

Javert moves warily, turning him so that he might bind the thick wrists with the hand cuffs he pulls from a breast pocket. He feels nothing as the first wrist clicks in to place. 

“I am sorry.” Valjean murmurs. Javert’s nostrils flare. He snaps the other cuff shut roughly then takes hold of Valjean’s coat, turning him towards the door. “I must tell you, even if you will not believe it – my feelings were never an act.”

Javert’s heart throbs sharply. Ah, there is the pain. He is his mother’s son after all, isn’t he? A convict’s whore. “Quiet. You are in my custody now. Do not make trouble or I will not hesitate to put you down.”

“I am sorry, Javert.” Valjean says it quietly, as Javert shoves him towards the door. He spins suddenly to face him as they reach the hall, and Javert’s heart cannot help but leap. Valjean is imposing, that has not changed. He draws his sabre with a flash, tilting his head in warning. “Do not make me –“

Valjean’s face is so tired, so drawn. The lines around his eyes that crinkled pleasantly when Madeleine would smile have deepened impossibly. “Javert I have wronged you. I cannot make up for what I did. I selfishly took what I wanted when it was – not mine to take. But –“

Javert’s sabre wavers imperceptibly where he holds it before him. “You lied to me,” he hisses, “you pretended to be a good man. But you are a beast. And I will collar you again, even if I must spill blood.”

Valjean’s eyes close as if he is in pain. “I beg you. Fantine’s child –do not let her suffer for my sins. I will go to the gallows if you would only –“

“What, 24601?” He relishes the cold formality of the numbers. Distant as the stars. “If I would let a parole breaker free, a liar who fooled an entire town?”

Another wince from Valjean. The wide shoulders hunch, and then there is realization. “You would lose your post,” he mutters. “I do not wish to cause you any more trouble.” He turns, letting Javert lead him forward at sword point.

But there is something in his eyes that does not speak of acceptance. It is the glint of the 24601 of old, the 24601 who shook beneath the lash but never begged mercy and never, _never_ stopped looking towards freedom.

Even once they meet the reinforcements Javert stays close, all the way to the holding cells. But Valjean is quiet and docile. When Javert removes the cuffs so that he may be shackled, the calloused fingers brush his knuckles and he freezes.

“Goodbye, Javert” the familiar voice whispers.

He wishes the slam of the cell door rang more of finality. Instead it is hollow.

\-------------------------------------------------------------

When Javert manages sleep, he dreams. Never the same, and always forgotten in the light of day with the familiar weight of a uniform.

There is the one image, though, that sticks with him.

It is Madeleine in his dream that night –not the brute Valjean, but Madeleine, who stands a beacon in the black void of his mind.

The older man wears the wine colored waistcoat Javert so admired on him, and though his shirt collar gaps where the cravat hangs open, there is no scar.

His smile is warm, as it was the nights at his table, in his parlor. But there is a sadness to his eyes that reminds Javert of –something.

He would like to reach out, to tie the cravat properly, but he can not move. A mayor should not be so disheveled. There is the smell of wood smoke, strong and musty.

“My chain is so heavy” Madeleine says. Still he smiles. Javert notices for the first time that he wears his chain of office.

Madeleine extends his hands, palms downwards, and Javert kneels without thinking to, taking them in his gloved fingers. He is in uniform, but it is that of an adjutant guard. His brow creases “Monsieur le Maire –“ He starts uncertainly.

Madeleine’s palms seem –slick.

“Are you a religious man, Javert?” Something trickles down Javert’s arm and he flinches back in revulsion, stumbling to his feet –it is blood. He cannot tell where it came from, stares in horror at his gloves as he looks back to the mayor.

Madeleine turns his palms upwards in supplication, and there are holes in the centers, ragged and torn. Javert splutters. “I do not –“

Madeleine steps close. The holes are where Javert’s middle fingers had rested, as if his touch had burnt straight through. He is reminded of the crudely painted crucifix his mother had kept.

“Do you believe a man’s sins can be forgiven, if he repents?” Madeleine whispers. Javert’s mind struggles –he has heard that before, he is certain, from-

One of the mayor’s broad hands pulls him gently forwards, sliding up to rest in his hair. His guard cap has gone, he does not know where. The blood is warm on his scalp. 

The other hand raises to his lips, and it smells sweet, not of the iron stench he had expected.

It is wine. He is not sure how he knows. “Your sins,” the deep voice husks, but it does not finish with the _are absolved_ that he desires. The flat of Madeleine’s hand nudges at his chin and he parts his lips with a sob.

The wine trickles down his throat, cool and dark. His chin is sticky where it drips. The other hand moves from his hair to stroke his cheek comfortingly, smearing a path. His stomach flips. There is a scar on Madeleine’s throat now, the scar of a convict’s collar. The blood has stained his waistcoat the red of a prison smock.

Javert drinks deeply, then pulls away to suck in a breath. The air burns his throat like the licks of a flame. He cannot pull his eyes from the scar. “Does it hurt?” he asks.

Madeleine smiles sadly again. “I am used to it,” he replies.

He does not think they speak wholly of the scar.

He does not truly remember the dream when he wakes, but for the sight of Madeleine, palms turned heavenward and bleeding dark red. He sees the image sometimes, when he prays.

He does not drink wine thereafter.

\----------------------------------------------------------------

The transfer back to Paris helps things. No longer suffering the glares of M-sur-M citizens, or the gossip. People spreading rumors that he framed Madeleine out of jealousy, when they should be thankful they were saved from the rule of a criminal.

There is real crime to staunch in Paris. He can do some good here, with Gymont.

He receives the news of Valjean’s death mutely. He does not believe it one bit, but to say so without evidence would look insane. Obsessive. He knows the man is strong enough to swim to safety –all the way from the galley to the shore if need be. Though he would believe it possible of no one but him.

He is occupied enough that he does not have to think of it often. He does not have the dreams in Paris, and his sinful lust is withered by long hours. 

Still, there is something, some nights, in his chest. Something of pain when he considers that it is possible Valjean may have truly drowned rescuing that sailor. Something of guilt.

On those nights, he swears he will exorcise this demon that plagues him. And in so doing, he will exorcise the last vestiges of his heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is the final chapter. Thank you to everyone who read, and double thanks for the kudos and comments. I still plan to do a third fic in this series taking place in Paris, after the barricades. It will be based around these two trying to deal with all the shit that happened in Toulon and M-sur-M; a common theme in J/JVJ fic, I know. But definitely a fascinating part of their dynamic that I want to explore for my own.
> 
> Just to clarify a few things about the ethics in this fic:  
> \- Having sex with somebody on false pretenses (aka a false identity) is NOT OKAY and Valjean was totally wrong to do so. That is not something I condone irl, just so y'all know.  
> \- Javert's attitude towards Fantine is also some bs. But I think we all know that. His POV is the only reason I used "whore" as a derisive term for her. Dude has issues.


End file.
